The knuckled hand of Death, who returned as silently as he left, pulled back his hand, and Georges instantly dropped the knife
“If Kha'zar related more painful information, Dark One, we want to hear it now so that we’ll how long Georges' pain will endure,” Raphael said.
Death transformed himself into flesh and handed Georges a small round orb that Raphael had seen before. “You both misjudge me. I reap lives not souls. I took the children's last breath, but their souls skipped off to meadows full of kind hearts. They are in safe repose.”
“What is this?” Georges asked, as he gazed deeply into the azure colored ball.
“He’s been to Fate’s abode,” Raphael said tersely.
“Who sends his regards, Guardian. It seems I’m to play the role of Messenger between you and our capricious friend, Charles.”
Georges took the orb and looked at it closely. “It’s beautiful.”
Raphael knelt down next to Georges. “It’s Time’s gift to Maddie Rector. I delivered its contents myself.”
“Yes. Look deeply and you will see that David and Elise Griffin will be born to parents who will love them more than life. Dry your tears, Georges, and spare your canvass."
****
“I’m glad you came, Father Kellan. I wanted you to see one of Alby’s latest dream painting for yourself, the one he abandoned the mural design project to complete.” She ushered the priest into Alby’s studio and brought him to the cloth-covered easel.
“You mean the painting?”
“Yeah, except he put it away with his other rejects, you might call them. And then, last night, he had another one of his...what should I call them? Attacks?” She raised the cloth and folded it back. “You see?”
Against a foggy-gray background were the corpses of Victoria and Stephan, just as the invisibles found them in all their watery agony. Father Kellan stepped back and made the sign of the cross. “My God, Child, he calls this a dream painting?”
Maddie pointed to a smiling brown imp watching their suffering. “This creature is all that remains of the first painting. This ugly animal.”
“That’s not an animal, it’s a demon and an old, well-known one. You shouldn’t look upon obscenity.” He reached for the cloth, but Maddie blocked his arm.
“That’s not all, Father. Look.” She pointed to three hazy figures witnessing the torture scene “This man here? He’s the man I saw in the mirror.” She pointed to Raphael’s image. “Is he well-known too?”
Father Kellan overcame his revulsion and drew closer. then stepped back again. “Are you sure this is the man you saw?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And he was standing behind Alby?”
“Yes, Father. But Alby didn’t see him. At least he didn’t say anything. He says he can never remember anything about his dreams.”
“Are all Alby’s dream paintings this grotesque?”
“No. I mean, they were, but he finished the one he was doing by the sea. He called it his day-dream picture. He’s already had a bid on it, but says he’ll never sell it.”
Maddie led him to another easel and drew back the covering. Father Kellan's grimaced faced softened into wonderment. “What does he call this loveliness?”
“The Lady With the Red Parasol.”
“He's truly gifted. He’s captured you perfectly.” Albion had painted Maddie in a long, rose-colored gown, holding a red sun umbrella as she strolled through a meadow of wildflowers. At her side were a boy, and a girl of seven years old dressed in white, with upturned faces, looking into the eyes of their adoring mother. “See how the wind catches the lace of your hem, the ribbon of the girl’s white hat, and the blond curls of the boy’s hair. It’s as though you were walking with angels. And the light seems so real, it could warm you."
Father Kellan saw the concern on her face, and gently nudged her with his elbow. “I think this should convince you, you’re Alby’s inspiration.”
“No, Father. There is something more at work here than inspiration. The doctor just called with the sonogram results this morning—a boy and a girl. How did Alby know I was having twins? He’s not having a hormonal meltdown. I tell you, Father, I’m baffled and a little afraid too.”
Father Kellan reached in his pocket and withdrew a vial of Holy Water. He uncapped it, took Maddie’s hand, and poured a few droplets of the water in her palm. “Believe me, if there was evil in this house, we would know it.” He curled her fingers into her palm. “Make the sign of the cross.” She obeyed, and Father Kellan smiled. “We’ll figure it out. Meanwhile, don’t trouble yourself about strange happenings. There is more to heaven and earth than we know, but usually there are rational explanations—maybe the doctor contacted Alby yesterday and he forgot to tell you. Let me pray on these things for now.”
****
Raphael looked away, turned Credo towards the sea, and spurred him into the clouds. Temptation rode behind him, whispering in his ear that to take human form once more, perhaps a grocer selling her apples, or a stranger helping her pump gas, would be the ultimate pleasure. Maddie would never have to know it was him. He could disguise himself….Seurat’s painful mystery had been easy to solve. All he had to do was gather facts, harsh as they were, and Georges had the satisfaction he so desired. But this knowing that to solve Maddie’s mystery would only lead to more pain—this was not a question of facts. Which is worse? Not being a Guardian knowing that the post carried with it the power to incorporate? Or being a Guardian, having the power, and constantly being tempted to use it?
There Is None So Blind
Dear Mr. Rector: As chairman of the 9/11 Memorial Art Commission, it is my duty to inform you that, due to continued disagreements regarding operation funding sources, the opening date for the Museum has been postponed indefinitely. As our contract stipulated, the purchase of your art work was contingent upon this funding and we will not be purchasing your work at this time. However, we will entertain any submission you present for inclusion in the Memorial Museum when its opening date is ascertained..
For Alby, the letter was a reprieve, proof his delay was fortuitous. Since finishing The Lady With The Red Parasol, his brushes had turned into lead and his oils hardened into cement. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d developed red/green color blindness.
“I don’t see any of the usual causes for non-genetic color blindness,” the ophthalmologist said. “You don’t have lazy eye, jerky eye, cone damage, light sensitivity, poor vision. What can I say except we’ll need to think about a neurological specialist. Are you under stress? Perhaps it’s time for a psychiatrist.”
Great. Maybe he could buy a dog, a cup, and a sign and beg on street corners. “My wife is pregnant with twins. Does that count?”
“It would dive me to drink, but I’m fifty-five,” Dr. Sanger, the Sigmund Freud doppelganger, said. “You still taking Vansandt’s sleeping pills?”
“The Wife insists I get at least three hours of sleep a night.”
“No more pills. Get lots of sun during the day and sleep in a dark, dark room.” Sanger tapped his fingers on his desk and let out a loud HHMMM. “You’re not a vampire, are you? That sun thing may be counterproductive.”
Just what he’d needed. A psychiatrist with a sense of humor when his life’s work was on the line.
He’d taken a cab home, getting out a block away from home so the Wife wouldn’t ask him why he’d stopped driving, and then beat himself up for hiding his condition from her. That’s what caused his parents’ divorce. Secrets. Walls that couldn’t be scaled. He’d seen Maddie waking to the mail boxes. “Hell-o,” he’d called, and she’d looked at him and waved. He’d sprinted to her, asking the universe for the words to tell her where he’d been and why if he couldn’t find a reason not to.
The reason had been in her hands. The blessed letter that released him from doing the impossible.
****
Tempting as it was to satiate Maddie’s curiosity, Fr. Kellan thought it best to discuss M
addie’s “mirror man” with Monsignor Rice, pastor of Our Lady of Angels Church and his mentor at the seminary. Rice walked a middle ground between piety and pragmatism and would hear him out rather than order him to deliver a stern warning to Maddie about the dangers of the occult.
“It does seem strange that Alby would know about a multiple pregnancy,” Rice said as he and Kellan drank their coffee. “But we can’t be sure if the man in the painting is the man Maddie saw in the mirror. She’s looking for an explanation. Cognitive dissonance is anxiety producing, and people can’t live in a state of anxiety. They chalk up the experience to chance or to drugs or to indigestion and move on. Or have themselves examined by a shrink. In Maddie’s case, she chose a priest.”
“She’s not given to hysteria,” Kellan said.
“No, but she’s pregnant.”
“She wasn’t pregnant when she saw the face in the mirror.”
“Hmmm. That does make it sticky. So, tell me about the figures in Alby’s painting.”
“One guy looked like Georges Seurat. He was an avid photographer and I saw a recently discovered picture of him in the New Yorker Magazine. One was Raphael. I recognized him from a self-portrait I saw in Rome. And the third man—a handsome blonde man dressed in black. There was the demon, of course. The other people, the ones being tortured, I didn’t recognize.”
“Alby…Alby Rector. Wasn’t he the one who got the mural commission?”
“According to Maddie, the project’s on hold. It's probably for the best. His gothic pictures are frightening.”
“You’d almost think he was the reincarnation of Francis Bacon,” Rice said.
“The philosopher?”
“No, the painter. A homosexual atheist who painted the grotesque. He was into masochism and was involved with a man George Deyers—died in ’92. Bacon painted versions of horror in peoples’ faces as they scream. Sort of like Van Gough a la Munch…”
“I don’t think Alby’s a homosexual or an atheist," Kellan said, "but he has bouts of depression”
Rice added a second lump of sugar to his second cup of coffee. “I had a teacher who said it’d be nice if happy people had talent. Why is it most artists are so morose?”
“Maybe it’s not them, but their Muses.”
“Furies, you mean. I wonder if artists have a choice when it comes to inspiration and where it comes from.” Rice put down his cup when the clock struck three. “I have to go. Confessions this afternoon. Honesty is always the best policy. Tell Maddie Rector who these people are, the ones you know. She’s an adult. Treat her like one.”
****
Death and Raphael appeared to have established a cordial working relationship, leaving Charles to his hobbies as the Dynamic Duo of the Spirit World accomplished great deeds. Adding to his distress was that, even though he had the capability as a Guardian, Raphael had not taken on human flesh. “I know he yearns for fair Bianca,” Charles told Time. Reluctantly, she had acquiesced to his plea for a consultation. “Yet, he resists the temptation to enjoy her company.”
“A silly consideration, but he may love her and value Alby’s talent over his own desires. What would they do about the twins?”
“Children grow up,” Charles reminded her. “Did we not produce History and Legend?”
“Children may grow up, but some never mature. Look at the Art Colony on Olympus. Those artists have more skeletons in their closets than Death has in his fortress. Five hundred year old squabbles are still fought by proponents of all sides. Bach still composes counter-point, for heaven’s sake.” Charles said nothing. Time saw he had stopped short, his pen still in mid-air, dripping ink on his table. “Charles! You’ll ruin your manuscript if you’re not careful.”
Brought back to Time, he slowly blotted the drops with a cloth, an enigmatic smile crossing his face. “My dear, you’ve inspired me, as I knew you would,” he purred. “Our young Guardian has assumed that because he is a painter, his bailiwick is only oils, acrylics, and water colors. But he is Guardian of all the arts, and has yet to tour the sacred halls of music and sculpture, opera and stage plays, or poetry and print. I wonder how he will remain Albion Rector’s Muse now that he has guard duties.”
“I see mischief in your eyes, Charles.”
Fate left his workbench, and sauntered towards her. A waltz played in the air. “Come dance with me,” he said seductively as he took Time in his arms. She pushed him away, but relented as she morphed into an adult. Their dances had kept them together thousands of years. It was impossible to resist Charles; he was charming after all. “Perhaps our young Guardian needs eine kleine nacht musik to fan the flames of his desire.”
“More likely Debussy’s Reverie, I’d say,” Time said.
“No. He needs a bolero or a tango. Something to ignite the passions.” The waltz ended and Charles bowed lowly to her.
“Why do you want him to fall? Do you think him unworthy of his title or his labor?” Time said.
“Ambition, M’lady has always been the enemy of Fate.” Time only half heard. She too knew what pain and happiness waited in the past, and was happily wading in the waters of yesterday. “You blame ambition for our regicide, not knowledge?” she said at last.
Charles grimaced. “Put them together and you have real mischief. Knowledge by itself is neutral, but let Ambition court her, and what do you get? Have knowledge of cells and heredity, and ambitious men try to create a Master race. Have knowledge of the stars, and ambition will turn men into astronauts. Where will it end?”
Time sadly agreed. She liked Raphael, but it was her own daughter, History, who treated him well, too well for someone who was commissioned to be objective. “Can’t you see if he will fall?”
Charles cast her a dour glance. “When Ambition is man’s constant companion, I count for nothing. His future is veiled from me as it is for him because his fate is not sealed. Free will has changed to self determination, and that puts a cloud over my crystal ball—to borrow from the gypsies.”
Time had grown old and young a hundred times during her visit. She was now almost fifty again and wisdom was upon her along with sympathy for Charles as an old friend. “Then I suggest Beethoven. Late Ludwig. The Beethoven filled with rage and resentment and desperation, in the throes of your cruelty, my love. Beethoven, deaf and alone with the music ringing in his head. Great, but knowing his greatness was all for nothing. I hear he has written another symphony he wants the world to hear.”
Charles patted her hand, and they walked to the terrace overlooking the sea of eternity. “Yes, I will visit our Ludwig, and suggest he send for the Guardian."
****
Raphael wasn’t prepared for the burly man that greeted him at the door. He had heard there were giants in the Spirit World but he thought they were confined to Asgard, the Greek Isles and Amazonia. Yet, the man who invited him inside the opulent oval room, twice his height, with his wild hair, excited eyes, and severe and care-lined face, still looked human. Where was the passivity of peace people acquired once the cares of the flesh had been cast off? The recognition of his own longings in the man’s demeanor made him uneasy. Passion. That’s what he saw in Beethoven.
“I feel one of us should adjust,” Raphael said, half joking as he entered.
“It must be you,” Ludwig said, looking down his nose. “And there’s no need to shout. I can hear now that I’m dead and have no one to talk to me.” Strewn about his studio were pages of composition paper. A grand piano stood in front of a huge window that’s silken drapes let in filtered sunlight that fell across a row of tea roses in ceramic planters on a tea cart. Ludwig yanked the drapes apart , and the brilliant light lit up the ivory keys. “Charles said you were coming about my Tenth Symphony.” He sat down and began to play the most beautiful music Raphael had ever heard. “What do you think?” Ludwig shouted above the music.
Raphael approached the piano and listened, rapt and amazed. “My God, Sir, it’s tremendous!”
Ludwig stopped playing.
“You understand why it must be heard, and why you must take it to earth.”
“I know nothing about inspiring music.”
“The painters, the sculptors—the visuals—I call them. They’re lucky. The Muses can inspire their minds’ eye. The poets, the playwrights, and the novelists can have their Muses whisper their ears ear. But what of musicians? No Muse can move an entire orchestra into someone’s bedchamber. You must make sure this is played correctly.”
Raphael looked around the room. Each music sheet was accompanied by orchestral notations. Centuries of diligence had produced a monumental work that went far beyond an inspiration. Its performance could not be left to chance or to the chance it might be changed. In the wrong hands a single note change would transform a Beethoven Masterpiece into a rap mix or a Broadway show tune. “Let me think on this, Sir. I don’t want to promise rashly.”
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